Talking it Out
by masked-spangler
Summary: Oh, come on. You are just dying to know what Cameron, John, Derek and Sarah talked about with that therapist, aren't you? NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Talking it Out

1: Cameron

She sits, straight-backed, unblinking, with none of the fidgeting he would expect from a kid her age.

"So," he says.

She just stares; this does not alarm him. Some of them open up right away, so relieved to have the chance to get things out in the open that the onslaught is cathartic, and immediate. Others need a little bit of lead...

"It must feel different today," he says. "Coming here alone? Without your family?"

"No," she says. "It doesn't feel different."

"Easy to hang back with other people here," he notes. "Let them do the talking."

She adjusts her position a little, and he sees the first hint of emotion, a smile, slight and just a little smug.

"They won't talk," she says.

"Why won't they talk?"

Stiff again. Staring.

"You know," he says. "Some people find that it's easier to talk in a place like this. I'm a sort of a...neutral party. You know what that means?"

"Yes," she says. "Neutral. Not aligned with or supporting any side or position in a controversy."

He pauses a little at her overly precise definition, but presses ahead. "Right. So...if there were sides...if there were controversies...you could talk about those with me. Because I wouldn't be on one side or the other."

"Yes you would," she says. "You'd be on my side. Because I'm the one who is here."

"We would be talking about your feelings, yes. But I would still be neutral, Cameron. Just an observer. A facillitator. I might point out something you've missed."

"And I might point out something you have missed," she says.

"Well, considering that I don't know very much about you yet, I'd say that's probably likely," he agrees. "So, is there something you want to talk to me about? Maybe something going on in your family?"

"No," she says.

"No, as in, there isn't something going on? Or no, as in, you don't want to talk about it?"

She fixes him again with that blank, unmoving stare.

"Tell me about your life," he says.

"There isn't much to tell."

"You go to school?"

"Yes."

"With your brother? With John?"

"Yes," she says. "Definitely with John."

Interesting. Her emphatic answer sets off his radar.

"And when you are at school, who else are you with?"

She stares back at him, face approximating puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

"Say you have some down time. Study hall, free period, something like that. Who do you spend it with?"

"With John."

"What about your classes? What do you do when John has different ones?"

"He doesn't have any different ones," she says. "I go to school with John. That's the point of going."

"So he has every class the same as you? Even gym?"

"I don't do gym," she says. "I have a note, excusing me."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Because Sarah...Mom...wrote me one."

He catches the slip. Sarah, she calls her. Not Mom. The 'mom' when she did remember it was awkward, forced. An afterthought. Because somebody told her to call Sarah that instead...

"Why did she write you one?"

She doesn't answer. He waits for her.

"I have a metal plate in my head," she says.

"Oh?"

"Yes. You say 'oh' a lot."

"Do I?"

"Yes. You do that a lot too. Ask questions."

"Questions are a good way to get to know someone," he says. "Do you ever do that? Do you ever try to get to know someone?"

"Yes," she says.

"And how does that usually work out?"

"Either they are not a threat to John, and they live, or they are a threat to John and must be evaluated and handled in an appropriate way."

"And who decides?"

"Decides what? Whether they are a threat? Or how to handle them in an appropriate way?"

"Both of those things. Who decides?"

"We each decide."

"And you come to a group agreement?"

"No. We each decide. Separately."

"And whose decision do you act on?"

She thinks about this. "We do what Mom tells us," she says. "For now."

For now, he notes. Interesting. "So, you don't always agree with her."

"No."

"So why do you let her make the call?"

"She is his mother. And that accords to her a certain status as the decision-maker. In this society, anyway."

'His' mother. Not 'our' mother. He notices this, but he supposes that at this point, there are bigger fish to fry.

"It sounds like you're very close to your brother," he says.

"Yes. John is my brother."

Once again, he finds there is something off in her tone. Like this is a line she has rehearsed, perhaps? Like a scripted answer she doesn't quite believe? If her social skills really are as bad as they seem to be, then she can't be the only one whose working hard at this. It can't be easy, for either of them. For any of them. A picture is starting to form in his head of this family, the girl perhaps delayed, or...something on the autism spectrum, maybe? Asperger's? A mother perhaps in a little over her head? And the boy, holding them together somehow, uniting them in a common purpose?

"And what about your mother? Are you close to her as well?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. John says she's scared of me."

"Does he?"

"You're doing it again, you know," she says. "The question thing."

"Yes, I know I am," he says. That acknowledgment seems to reassure her. It's classic autism spectrum. She can accept his behaviour, incomprehensible though it may be to her, as long as he is open about it. He wonders if perhaps the conflict with the mother might be rooted in this. The woman was wound up tight. Even in the limited time he had spent with her, he could see it. If she was the type to not be inclined to overly share with her children...well, it wouldn't make her bad. She would probably think she is doing the right thing, protecting them, shielding them from the dangers of the world. But on a kid like this, it could backfire, and you'd never even see it coming unless you knew what to look for.

"Do you agree with John?" he asks. "Is she scared of you?"

"I don't know."

"Could she be impatient, maybe?"

"I don't know."

There's that classic presentation again. No, she wouldn't know. She wouldn't know how someone else was feeling unless they spelled it out directly--wouldn't know just how much of whatever John told her was blustery exaggeration, and wouldn't know how much of it, if any, was rooted in a kernel of truth. He'd get the mother in for a one-on-one. It should be easy enough to work through.

"Does it make you feel better?" he asks her. "Talking to me about this?"

She meets his eyes one more time with that blank, vacant look.

"I don't know," she says.

--

to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

2: John

He sits on the couch, seemingly placidly, but his eyes sweep over every surface, every angle and every corner of the room. He misses the usual draws for kids his age: the magnet sculpture, the fencing sword hanging from the wall, the signed baseball. He takes in the shadows, notes the blind spots where the light isn't quite reaching. He is appraising exits, too, and he's good at it, eyes lingering for just a second too long on a low-reaching window. He is wearing the same tattered grey sweatshirt he had on when he came with his mother.

"John."

The boy nods. "Yeah. I, um, I'm not really sure what I should be talking about."

"Well, why don't we start with why you think you're here."

"I know why I'm here," the boy says.

He waits for elaboration. There isn't any.

"Well?" he prods. "Why are you here?"

"We're checking you out."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"To find out of I'm someone who might be good for you?"

The boy nods, a slightly odd smile cracking his aloof facade. "Yes," he says. "That's it, exactly."

"Well, that's actually a really good place to start," he reassures him. "It's a tricky thing, seeing a doctor like me, and you'll need to find out if my approach works for you."

There is silence. He lets it hang for a moment.

"You know, people have all kinds of different approaches. Doctors, parents, siblings. People. And sometimes those approaches might be different from yours, and that can lead to conflict."

"Among people," the boy echoes dubiously

"Um hm."

That odd smile again. "Is that why you think I'm here? Because I'm having conflicts with people?"

"Well? Are you?"

The boy straightens. "You know, in my family, I'm considered sort of like a leader. So I decide things."

That's common in families with absent fathers. "Do you?"

"Well, sometimes. Maybe. I should be."

"Is that a problem for you?"

"Is what a problem?"

"You said 'I should be.' Does that mean you're not?"

An age-appropriate fidget, at last. "It's complicated."

This, too, is common in families with absent fathers.

"Tell me about your relationship with your sister," he says.

"Why? Why are you interested in her?"

"Well, I suppose I thought you might have a special bond with her. What with it just being you guys and your mom and all."

"Oh. Ohhh. You think this is about that? Look, my dad, he was never really in it, you know? He was gone, like, way before I came along. I didn't even learn about him, until..."

The boy breaks off, stops himself. But there is something there. Almost like he's only stopping because, like the battle-hardened army ones who watch the exits, he doesn't want to say too much.

"Until when? Until your uncle came?"

The boy relaxes. This is safer territory, it seems. "Yeah, all right. Until my uncle came."

"And when did that happen?"

"This year. It was kind of a coincidence, really. I mean, he wasn't looking for us. At least, I don't think he was. He would have told us if that was his...or maybe he wouldn't, I don't know. But he just..."

"What, John?"

"He was in this accident. We know a guy who is a paramedic, and he treated him. And we kind of all wound up together."

"And how has that been?"

"It's been nice. For me, anyway. He told me stuff about my dad, took me to see...a place that was important to them."

"That does sound nice."

"He doesn't get along with Mom, though. It's almost comical. They absolutely loathe each other. Can't stand to be together."

He doesn't ask the boy how that must be. He finally gets his father figure, and it makes his mother figure come undone? That would explain that tension he saw in her during their brief little family session, the way she kept her eyes on John and her distance from the rest of them...

"It must be hard for her. The brother of the father of her child...it must remind her of what she lost."

"It's more than that. They're both kind of type A, you know? So they each want to be in charge, and she thinks she knows best because she's her, and he thinks he knows best because he's him..."

"And you? Your sister?"

"We let them have their thing. And then I make my own decisions."

"And Cameron?"

"She makes her own decisions too."

"Does she make the same ones you do?"

"Not necessarily. But she'll go along with me, if I ask her to. Unless that would compromise...things."

"What things, John?"

"That's really more of a session 2 discussion. Sorry, doc."

"No, no, it's fine. You're doing a great job, John."

"Oh, really? There's, like, grading going on? How am I doing? A? B? C?"

"Right now, I couldn't say because you're using humour to deflect your true feelings about what you're experiencing right now."

"Ah." He raises his head to nod at an imaginary audience. "And how, he's using the time-honoured technique of talking to me like a grown-up in the hopes that it will make me talk."

He can't conceal a smirk of amusement. "And? Will it?"

The boy leans back again, too relaxed by his deflection, that moment of vulnerability lost. "As I said. "That's more of a session 2 conversation."

So, he has conceded that there will be a session 2. That's something.

He can definitely start, with that.

--

to be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

3: Derek

The phone rings just as he's settling him in, and by the time he has it dealt with, the service turned on, the pager on vibrate, the uncle, Derek, has done whatever appraisal has suited him. He's sprawling, legs splayed, a relaxed and smug expression on a lined, wary face.

"I'm not talking," Derek says.

He takes in those guileless, smirking eyes with typical measured calm. "Is that so?"

"I just want to make that clear so that you don't, you know, have expectations."

"I appreciate that."

"Yeah, I bet you do. So...what's your deal, exactly?"

"What's yours?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you're not here to talk. You made that clear. So why are you here?"

"Just doing my job," he says.

"Which is what, exactly?"

He doesn't answer, but it's plain enough from what's been said so far. He's the uncle. Brother of the heroically martyred father of the house, and himself a soldier too. He's the guard now. The scout. The agent, sent to check up on things before they send the mother, the crucible on which this family, and all their drama, rests.

He shrugs, posture slack and easy. "Oh, you know."

He's enjoying this. Of course, he would be. There are signs of post-traumatic stress even in that easy grin and bright but careful eyes. War is disenfranchising. But now, he has the power again, even if it is over something as small as this. He will go back, and report to them, report to his new little family, his troop, his unit in this post-war life. Yes, or no. I approve, or I don't. And she'll come. Based on that, she'll come. He may not be talking, but that doesn't mean he isn't sharing just the same.

"So," he begins. "How was breakfast?"

Derek blinks. "What?"

"We have an hour. We may as well talk about something."

"Fine. Breakfast was fine."

"What did you eat?"

"Pancakes."

"Really?"

"My nephew likes them. I think it's the only thing his mother ever cooks."

"Well then, they must have been good pancakes."

He shrugs again. "It's not what I would prefer."

He's careful, but it's there: like everything else in this family's life, the pancakes are symbolic. Not what he would prefer.

"Well? What would you prefer?"

He appears to give the question serious thought, and his easy grin stiffens as the question prods him to consider the life he had before he came to be here, eating pancakes.

"Cereal," he finally says. "The sugary kind, with funny shapes and tiny marshmallows. We...we didn't have cereal. Where I was, we didn't have cereal."

"Interesting. Have you ever told John and Sarah about this?"

"Well, there's other things *they* don't have. You pick your battles, you know?"

He does know. But he keeps his tone suitably bland and neutral when he answers. "Oh?"

And like that, the grin is back. "Nice try. I already told you, I'm not talking."

"All right. But there's nothing wrong with it, you know. With talking. John was here, and..."

"Yeah, he's a regular chatterbox."

"And Cameron..."

A derisive snort. "She certainly wouldn't have helped you."

"Why would you say that?"

His mouth starts moving, then he shuts it again, shaking his head. "Forget it. You wouldn't understand."

"Wouldn't I?"

Derek struggles to bring the easy grin back to his face, but he can't hide a scowl at mention of his nephew's sister.

"Something you want to say about Cameron?" he prods.

"No."

"You seem conflicted about her."

"You can't say that. I haven't said anything to make you say that."

"You don't have to say it."

There is silence for a moment. Then, he frowns. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"That head-shrink thing. Don't do it. I already told you, I'm not here for that."

So, Derek has problems with doctors, too. He's tempted to ignore the dig and get back to what they were talking about, but he senses there's something important here.

"You've had experience with psychotherapy before?"

"Not me."

"John? Cameron?"

"Not them either."

Sarah, he supposes. The mother. It doesn't surprise him---he got that vibe off her the first time she was here, in their family session. If he's right, it isn't his business to discuss it now, with this man. But he can't resist one final, tiny prod.

"Let me guess. You don't want to talk about it."

"Nothing to talk about. It messes with your head more than it clears it. That's not something I need."

"No?"

"Nice try. I already told you, you're not getting me that way."

A typical soldier response. He assumes they are adversaries, each of them going in with the goal of 'winning' somehow.

"It's not about 'getting' you."

"Fine," he says. "So, what, you're just trying to 'help' us?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"If you knew what you were getting yourself into? Yeah. Yeah, it would be hard to believe."

"And if I didn't know?"

"Then its easier to believe. But just as stupid."

"So, explain it to me," he says. "What, exactly, am I getting myself into?"

But he kicks back again. He's already collected himself, and now he is smug, and finished.

"I already told you," he says. "I'm not talking."

--

to be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

4: Sarah

She comes in, and he watches her. She is like her son, holding her arms around herself as she takes in the measure of the room. There is that awkward stiffness, the hawkish eyes--- but the shine on hers is much sadder, and a little weary. She notes the exits too, but a little less obviously. Better trained, maybe. Or more experienced. She sits, hugs her jacket close to her, looks at him.

"Are you cold?" he asks her.

She's shivering. Just a little, but enough that he notices. It isn't cold.

"I'm fine," she says.

"I have to admit, I was surprised to hear from you."

That stare again. No doubt at all those children are hers. No doubt at all where they get it from. Whether it is shared genes that shape them, or shared trauma, he hasn't yet decided. But something is up, and he is convinced that she is the key to it.

"I usually start by asking someone what it is that's brought them here today," he says.

"I don't know," she answers.

"That's funny. Your daughter said that too."

At the mention of her daughter, she flinches, but covers with a smooth "Did she?"

"And I told her, as I told your son, that this is a safe place. It's a safe place, Sarah. You can tell me whatever you need to tell me."

"Yeah. I've heard that one before."

Well, that catches his attention. He was right in his earlier guess that she was the one in this family who has dealt with his type in the past. She's a little too skittish for it to be only the prospect of therapy that has her spooked, but he reigns in his curiosity and keeps his face neutral. "And?"

"And if you're lying, I won't know until it's too late."

And there is that paranoia again. All of them had it except perhaps the girl, but of course one must connect with people in order to understand or fear them, and of the lot of them, she was the one who was most deficient in that area...

"But you came, didn't you?"

She breathes out slowly. "Yeah. I came."

He notices her gaze wandering, and he sees she is eying the cardboard box on his table. It's the one with the dolls and the colouring books and the toys he has for children; he forgot to put it away after his appointment with Savannah Weaver.

When she does not start talking again, he lets his own eye wander there too.

"Go ahead and have a look if you want to," he says, nodding toward the box. He senses a more delicate approach just might go over with her, and her hands, half-fisted, half-reaching, twitch visibly as she wavers between curiosity and what's clearly a mounting panic. Cold feet, he sees it all the time. But this is more than most, and it's conforming his suspicion that any prior experience she's had with this sort of thing wasn't good for her.

"Go on," he encourages. Then he reaches into his pocket, taps a button on his pager and sets it ringing. She looks up at the noise, and he mutters an 'excuse me,' nudging the box toward her as he steps away. They need space sometimes. He has set up the panic button for situations just like this one, and he makes himself look busy with the phone for a moment, keeping half an eye on her, waiting until the illusion of distance takes hold and she drops her guard a little. When he comes back to her, he finds that she's picked up a sketch pad and is slowly drawing. Her body is finally relaxing, her shoulders unclenching, her face both soft yet oddly intense as she moves the pencil over the smooth, white sheet. When he attempts to peek over at her work, she doesn't stop him.

It takes his breath away.

"What is it?" he asks her.

The drawing is rough, but horrifying. A school yard. The silhouette of a boy, crouching, arms raised to shield himself from falling debris. The silhouette of a woman, crouched on top of him, hugging him close. Protecting him. The sky lit up with fire, the heavens opened up to a rain of hail and shrapnel and blood. And hovering all around the edges of the grisly tableau, inhuman skeletons, towering, metallic.

She doesn't answer for a second. And when she does, her voice is tight, but oddly calm.

"That's Judgment Day," she says.

"Judgment day?"

She nods.

"Is that something you think about a lot?"

"Wouldn't you?"

She fidgets, looks away. Then, seems to strengthen inside and meet his gaze.

"I dream about it," she says.

"Oh?"

"Sometimes, he's older, when it happens. Sometimes he's not. There is fire, though. Always fire."

"And always you? Protecting him?"

"Yes. Always me."

"That's a lot of pressure on you."

"More on him."

"But he has you to lean on. And you have..."

"I don't have anybody."

"As I was saying. That's a lot of pressure on you."

"Is it?"

And that, right there, is the crux of her problem, he supposes. Whatever has happened to make it this way---her and him, alone, against the world---it's haunting her. More so because it seems like none of them will talk about this. About him, the elephant on the room, John's father. He's spent the weeks watching them all dodge it like skilled double agents during military questioning, offering him alternative secrets whenever he gets too close to asking about this one...

"It's okay to talk about him," he says. This is the defining moment for this family he is sure of it, and if he can get her to open up to him about this, there is hope yet of saving them. "Sarah, look at me. It's okay, you understand? It's okay. Now, talk to me. Talk to me about John's father."

And like that, her guard is up again. "Why? Who told you to ask me about that?"

He is taken aback by what he hears in her tone, but he holds his ground. This is her trauma, he is sure of it, and nothing can happen here unless she opens up.

"Nobody told me. Sarah, it's...it's not your fault, you know that, right? Whatever happened..."

"You have no idea what's happened."

"So explain it to me."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I'm too smart for that."

"Too smart for what, Sarah?"

"I'm not going there with you. Not today, anyway. Not until I'm sure."

"Sure about what?"

She smiles. "You ask that a lot."

"Funny, Your daughter said the same thing."

And like that, the lightness leaves her eyes. He isn't sure which button is the more important one to push right now. He lets the silence hang for a second, then decides.

"How did you meet him?"

"We are not talking about that."

"Why not?"

"I don't like to say stuff about him. It's safer that way."

"Safer because you can avoid having to deal with your feelings about his death?"

"Safety is not about feelings."

"Isn't it?"

"No. Can we talk about something else, please?"

"All right. Let's talk about that." He points again to the picture. "Does he have anything to do with it?"

He knows she won't answer. But he's watching her eyes, and she says it there. He isn't sure if what she's feeling is coming from the picture itself, or from his questions. But whatever this 'Judgment Day' scenario is representing, it started with John's father and how he died. Was there fire? Were there machines? It was a battle, obviously. That fits with what he's heard from John, from the soldier uncle, from the little he's gotten off of her. He gets that there was some sort of battle. But was she there? Did she see it, somehow? Was it less of an actual army incident and more like an everyday sort of shoot-out, a mugging, a car-jacking, something like that? Did it hurt her too?

"Hey." He tries to catch her eye again, but she won't look at him. She's biting her lip, hands twitching, eyes welling up, commanding herself to keep it together. "We can deal with this," he tells her. "If you tell me what it is, we can work it through. I can help you."

"That's easy to say."

"I know it is. And I'll be frank with you, there's a lot going on here that's beyond even me to put my finger on. But losing him...however it happened...I can help you. On that one thing, I can help."

She's quiet for a second. Then she finds that spark again and moves, grabbing the paper from his hand in one fast, angry burst, and balling it into the garbage can.

He waits, letting the silence press down on her. She fidgets, looks away from him, then tries to sit back again.

"Damn it. I'm not letting you get me like this."

Like her brother-in-law, the one who was a soldier too. Assuming this is a contest. Well, fine. He'll play along with that.

"So, people have gotten to you before? Like this?"

"I don't want to talk about that."

There is not a denial in that. This interests him.

"There's a lot you people don't want to talk about."

"Yeah, well, life sucks sometimes, and not everyone wants to live in the past."

"I don't think that's your problem."

"What?"

He picks her picture out of the garbage can, smoothes out the ball of twisted paper, sets it down in such a way that she can't look away from it.

"If this is what you think you have in your future? Sounds like that would be the scarier place to be."

She swallows, blinks quickly, trying to hold herself together. But he's hit it, at last: she can't live with her past, but she's terrified of her future. So where, exactly, does that leave her to live?

"You have John," he says.

She nods, resolutely ignoring the tears seeping out of her eyes, unbidden.

"You have Cameron. You have Derek."

She hesitates, then slowly nods again.

"And you had him, whoever he was."

She chokes back a sob, then nods again.

"So let's start with that," he says.

She closes her eyes letting the last of the tears leak out while she manages a shuddering breath.

"I'm tired," she says after a moment.

"I bet."

"And I'm not really sure I feel like talking."

But that's feeling, at least. He'll start with that.

the end


End file.
